Hotel Room Conversations
by immer wenn es dunkel wird
Summary: He really doesn't like wearing shoes in bed though. Germany/Belgium - friendship or pre-relationship; fifatalia.


Hotel Room Conversations

{This will most likely evolve into a collection of all things Belgium-related, but for now enjoy the drabble.}

Have some cute Germany/Belgium interactions, which you can interpret as strictly friendly or pre-relationship.

Summary: He really doesn't like wearing shoes in bed though. Germany/Belgium- friendship or pre-relationship; fifatalia.

_I hereby disclaim any rights_

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She's sitting on his hotel bed with a black eye and a pair of teal high-waist shorts. Her wedges are strewn across the floor, one nearby the nightstand and the other at the foot of his bed. It's 8 pm in Brazil, and the evening sunlight casts a mellow orange glow on the city and the partying tourists below. They're loud and rowdy, celebrating the German victory against the USA or celebrating the unexpected American admission to the second round. He stands unsurely in the open doorway, self-conscious about his sunburnt sweaty cheeks and kaki swimming trunks, and fiddles with the hem of his white shirt.

"Hey, Lud." She greets, smiling widely even if the gesture must hurt the swollen skin around her right eye. "I'm happy you won!" Her congratulations come out chipper, albeit a bit husky – from the alcohol or exhaustion.

"Was.." He utters, gesturing to her face, "Wa- What happened to your eye?"

Her eyebrows furrow together and gingerly she reaches up to touch, but chickens out halfway through, instead resting her hand on her lap. It gets him a shrug and an apologetic smile, a mumbled, "Thought it'd be better now."

Ludwig crosses his arms and reprimands with as much gentleness he possesses, "That was not an explanation, Mathilde."

"Nothing gets past you, mmh?" She comments, before a tired chuckle leaves her lips and forces her shoulders to shrink. "Got into a small quarrel during your match. Don't worry about it." Her explanation is accompanied by a wave of the hand, a dismissal for further questioning.

It makes him purse his lips in minor annoyance. Ludwig hauls a hand through his gel-fashioned hair, which feels sticky and awful thanks to the humidity, and makes his way to the bathroom. He inquires over his shoulder, "You've put ice to it, nicht wahr?"

"Oh? Ja, ja! It just hurts like a son of a bitch, like Alfred would say." Mathilde responds, plopping down on the mattress, on her back.

He leaves the door open, so he can still listen to her speak properly as he bends over the lavabo and splashes fresh cool water into his face. From the open windows, the sound of salsa music and raspy shouts enters the usually quiet hotel room he shares with his brother. Gilbert probably let the Belgian nation inside when he came to grab a change of clothes. He towels his face dry; even if the fabric is too abrasive for his sensitive scarlet cheeks, and the warm temperature would have him sweating in matter of seconds.

It surprises him he hasn't thought sooner of inquiring about Mathilde's match. Her team had to play South Korea today. Ludwig pinches the bridge of his nose, which hurt because it's equally burnt.

"How did your team do?" He asks, as he saunters around the bed and sits down beside her. He pointedly refuses to watch how her tank top rides up her abdomen, even if it's an enticing sight.

Her eyes are closed and he can see clearly how badly the right one looks. The skin around the socket is bruised and an ugly yellow, streaked with faint purple and red. Her blonde eyelashes are hardly distinguishable. She groans lowly, when she tries to open both of her eyes again.

At least she smiles when she answers, "We won." Her hand shoots out to pull at his shirt, beckoning to lie down next to her.

Ludwig obliges because he finds it hard to say no to pretty people, especially ones who get into fistfights during football matches.

"I'm still wearing my shoes." He remarks, a tad annoyed because he hates getting dirt on his sheets.

Mathilde scoffs, links their clammy hands together and comments wryly, "Those ugly sandals are _hardly _shoes."

"I walked in the sand today. It's completely rational to assume there's still some on my soles. I don't want sand in my bed, Mathilde." If she didn't know him better, she'd take his commentary for whining. Ludwig's not whining, he's dead serious and somehow that makes it even funnier.

She lets go of his palm, rolls onto her stomach – even if it means their arms are now uncomfortably plastered together, and stares at him sideways, grinning. "Never change, _Schätzchen._"

There's a lump in his throat, because nobody calls him that so casually, not even his older brother who usually graces him with whatever nickname he deems appropriate at the time. Her profile looks inexplicably melancholic, but that's probably the combination of her blonde curls framing her jaw line and the sight of her black eye. His fingers twitch, so he folds his hands on his abdomen. Ludwig stares at the ceiling fan, which is mostly there for decorative purposes.

"With how much did you win?" He asks softly. The beer must be getting to his head, because he feels a wave of exhaustion wash over him.

Mathilde props her knuckles under her chin and answers, "Same as you." Then she mouths the score to him for good measure. _o-n-e to z-e-r-o._

"You should go to sleep." She says gently, like an older sister would kindly admonish a younger sibling.

Ludwig thinks it's ill politesse to sleep when there's a visitor, even if it's one of his closer friends and neighbors. He replies, "Such a show of hospitality that would be."

She chuckles, then winces because whenever she laughs or smiles her eyes have this habit of crinkling together and it's a horrid idea at the moment.

"Who started the fight?" His question catches her off-guard because she turns her head for a couple of seconds.

Her answer is as much a proper answer as a question at the same time. Ultimately it leaves him without something concrete. "Technically I did, but practically, he did."

Ludwig frowns, one of those frowns that Feliciano insists would freeze stuck onto his features one day if he didn't pay more attention. Unsurely, he mutters, "That's hardly a good response."

And she looks at him again, attentively with one eye while the other's barely open. Her right eye is watery and the white is a tad pink. Whoever hit her must've packed quite a punch and he suddenly wants to call his brother and _her _brother and Francis as well, to pick her up or go out to finish the fight. He wants to hurt whoever hurts her, well aware she's probably left the poor bastard far worse for wear.

"Well," Mathilde starts, gingerly putting a blonde strand of hair behind her ear, "I was watching the big screen with a hundred tourists, you know how it goes. Everyone's drinking. And then your team scored…"

Somehow, he thinks he knows what happened. His gaze remains fixated upon her mouth, her chapped lips – and it's strange how for a split-second, he wonders if she's brought special UV-resistant lip balm. At least the Belgian tans far better than himself. Or perhaps her sunblock is better.

She sighs and reaches out to pat his upper-arm, then moves downwards to hold his wrist. It's a revelation when she explains what some dim-witted tourist said. "He called your team a pack of Nazis, Lud. So being a tiny bit drunk, I sort of called his mother a whore and it escalated from there."

"I.. I appreciate the sentiment even though I don't like the idea of you putting yourself in harm's way for my sake." Always diplomatic to a fault.

Mathilde rolls onto her back, but instead of leaving some space between their overheated bodies, she half-sprawls herself over his torso, pulling his arm over her abdomen in a friendly hug. Her curly hair tickles the expanse of his neck and the underside of his chin. He groans at the unexpected weight and rolls his eyes at her antics, despite the small exasperated smile on his lips.

She jokes aloud, "You're welcome, _Schätzchen._"

"I really want to take my shoes off, though." He reminds her, even though it's a certified fact she isn't going to move away any time soon.

"_Bonne nuit_." Mathilde declares without much decorum before stretching her back and legs all over him. Ludwig coughs uncomfortably in response, but grabs her a bit tighter regardless.

He closes his eyes and tries to focus on his breathing, then he hears her whisper, "I smashed a beer bottle over that fucker's head, by the way."

If anyone asks, Ludwig Beilschmidt most definitely _did not _laugh.

.


End file.
